Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

We played in barns far from any road, cocking
musical snooks at the one who’d pronounced old songs
not relevant, said we must study his collected
thoughts and look to our glittering future

in the damp concrete towers he’d stacked us in.
He took away our children. In barrack-schools
they learned the silent footwork of gymnastics;
the best were sent to somersault for gold.

We practised old and secret finger tricks,
played wild goat dances, ancient harvest songs
on dulcimer, flute and fiddle.
When the singing cobbler died his son returned,

brought back perfume for his armpits, whispers
of revolt, a hunting rifle that made ours
look like pistols, and a contraption we knew only
from frightening rumours: a piano accordion.

It covered him from chin to balls, outstretched
his arms, squeaked and moaned, honked and farted.
We told him no, the old tunes were not suited
to such a noise-box, made him creak and hee-haw solo.

When the revolt crackled across the north
a chorus filled the square, demands painted on old
bedsheets, and the cobbler’s rifle barked, scattering
pigeons for miles as police threw away their uniforms.

When word came that the president had gone
to learn the music of the sewers some folk
sat their scented hero on a throne of shoulders,
said he must never again be made to perform alone.

We no longer play in secret, but a pace behind
his heaving back as he flaps cocky elbows
and his box bellows like a knackered bull,
brays like a donkey with the hump.

He’s just been voted mayor. Last time he was away
we started the accordion gags: What’s the difference
between a squeeze-box and a trampoline? You have
to take your boots off to jump on a trampoline.